The Disappeared Read Free Page B

Family Court, I can't tell you how hard it was to get
there. I had to sack the solicitor, and three others before him - none of them
would believe me. They're all fools. But I knew the judge would listen. I don't
care what anyone says, I have always believed in British justice. Look at these
papers . . .' She reached for the box.
    'Hold
on a moment, Mrs Jamal,' Jenny said patiently, feeling anything but. 'I'm
afraid we'll have to rewind for a moment.'
    'What's
the matter?' Mrs Jamal flashed uncomprehending deep brown eyes at her, her
lashes thick with mascara and her lids heavily pencilled.
    'This
is the first I've heard of your case. We'll need to take it a step at a time.'
    'But
the judge said to come to you,' Mrs Jamal said with a note of panic.
    'Yes,
but the coroner is an independent officer. When I look into a case I have to
start afresh. So, please, perhaps you could explain briefly what's happened.'
    Mrs
Jamal rifled through her disorganized documents and thrust a photocopy of a
court order at her. 'Here.'
    Jenny
saw that it was dated the previous Friday: 23 January. Mrs Justice Haines of
the High Court Family Division had made a declaration that Nazim Jamal, born 5
May 1982, and having been registered as a missing person on 1 July 2002, and
having remained missing for seven years, was presumed to be dead.
    'Nazim
Jamal is your son?'
    'My
only son. My only child . . . All I had.' She wrung her hands and rocked to and
fro in a way which Jenny could see would eventually have caused her lawyers to
feel more irritation than sympathy. But she had spent enough years in the
company of distressed mothers - fifteen years as a family lawyer employed by
the legal department of a hard-pressed local authority - to tell melodrama from
the real thing, and it was genuine torment she saw in the woman's eyes. Against
all her better instincts she decided to hear Mrs Jamal's story.
    'Perhaps
you could tell me what happened, from the beginning?'
    Mrs
Jamal looked at her as if she had briefly forgotten why she was there.
    'Can
we get you some tea?' Jenny said.
    Armed
with a cup of Alison's strong, thick, builder's tea, Mrs Jamal started
falteringly into the story she had told countless times to sceptical police
officers and lawyers. She appeared mistrustful at first, but once she saw that
Jenny was listening carefully and taking detailed chronological notes, she
slowly relaxed and became more fluent, pausing only to wipe away tears and
apologize for her displays of emotion. She was a highly strung but proud woman,
Jenny realized; a woman who, given different chances in life, might have been
sitting on her side of the desk.
    And
the more Jenny heard, the more troubled she became.
    Amira
Jamal and her husband Zachariah had both been brought to Britain as children in
the 1960s. Their marriage was arranged by their families when they were in
their early twenties, but fortunately for them they fell in love. Zachariah
trained as a dentist and they moved from London to Bristol for him to join his
uncle's practice in early 1980. They had been married for three years before
Amira fell pregnant. The pregnancy came as a huge relief: she was becoming
frightened that her husband's very conservative family might put pressure on
him to divorce her, or even to take another wife. It was a moment of great joy
when she gave birth to a healthy boy.
    With
all the love and attention his doting parents lavished on him, Nazim sailed
through primary school and won a scholarship to the exclusive Clifton College.
And as their son became absorbed into mainstream British culture, so Amira and
Zachariah adapted themselves to their new social milieu of private school
parents. Nazim went from strength to strength, scoring highly in exams and
playing tennis and badminton for the school.
    The
family's first major convulsion occurred when Nazim was seventeen, at the start
of his final year. Having spent so much time mixing with other mothers, Amira
had come to appreciate